


things you said when you were drunk

by wants2die



Category: The Fosters (TV 2013)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, POV Second Person, Underage Drinking, uh???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wants2die/pseuds/wants2die
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You haven't been this free, this <i>light</i> in ages.</p><p>or, things Jude said when he was drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	things you said when you were drunk

The whiskey burns your tongue as you take a dry swallow; you shudder and wonder why Taylor suggested this. The bottle is passed around the circle, again and again, and you stop counting the number of small sips you've taken when she produces a second bottle with a bright, shaky smile.

You're almost eighteen, on the cusp of no longer being a child, but you still can't hold your alcohol. You never could. Within a few minutes - several? - and a few more drinks, you're having trouble thinking straight.

Your legs have fallen asleep under you, or maybe that's the whiskey numbing your extremities, making you feel calm and content from your cotton-ball head down to your toes. You think, oh, right. This is why Taylor suggested this. Your head is swimming - no, floating, on top of the waves with no effort required. You haven't been this free, this light in ages.

Connor, the bastard, has always been more tolerant than you, and he laughs from where he's pressed against your side. Or maybe it's you who pressed against his side. Whichever. You always seem to find your way here in the end.

“We'd better get you home, Jude,” Connor says, extricating himself from your heavy limbs. He stands up and offers you his hand. You think you take it; you're not sure of anything right now. Except that Connor's fingers are warm clutched around yours, and he doesn't let go once you're upright. You're sure of Connor.

Taylor hands Connor the bottle for a final swig and they exchange small talk; your hand grows sweaty in Connor's but neither of you pull away.

Finally, Taylor waves you off and you and Connor start to walk home. The night is warm and heavy against your skin (of course, that might be your head) and the walk is pleasant, except for the way that your feet thud into the ground. Maybe it's not so much that the walk is pleasant, but that the company is.

You tell Connor as much, in fewer words, and he gives a soft snort in response. “You must be really drunk, kid,” he says quietly.

“'m not,” you say, although your better part knows it's a lie. “And even if I were, it would still be true. Al'hol is a suppressant, not a stimulant. You're the best person, Connor. The best person in the world for me.”

Connor grins. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” you tell him, earnest. “The only person I've ever loved more is Callie. Well, an' Stef and Lena. Sorry.” They're family. Family comes first. But you might love Connor more than Jesus and Mariana and Brandon. He's family too. You don't tell him that, because he knows.

“I love you too, Jude,” he tells you, but his tone is too light for the heavy words, which upsets you.

“That's not what I mean, Connor,” you say, sharply. The words sound odd because they're sharp and your head is all muddled cotton. But you have to make him understand, and Connor is thick sometimes even when he hasn't been drinking. “I mean, like, I love you. I'm in love with you.”

You didn't mean to say that, but it doesn't surprise you. It's true, isn't it? You've loved him since you were thirteen. You were kids, too fragile and scared to say anything, but you remember blue nails and shooting ranges and you know you loved each other, even if you weren't brave enough to say it. Even now, of course, it's only the alcohol coursing through your veins that's emboldened you enough to say it, but that doesn't matter. What matters is the way Connor is blinking at you like a deer caught in piercing headlights.

“Jude, you're drunk. Don't do this now,” he says, begs, and you start to think his stricken look might be less surprise and more sorrow.

“Why not?”

“I - I can't do this now. You won't feel the same way in the morning, Jude. You don't love me, you're just drunk. I've been in love with you for so long. It would hurt so much to lose you. I can't. The only reason I'm telling you this now is because you won't remember it in the morning.” Connor laughs bitterly. “Go home, Jude. Sleep it off.” Connor turns on his heel, his hand pulling away from yours as he stomps off.

You let him go, and as you watch him walking away from you you promise not to let yourself forget. You can't.

And the next morning, when your eyes snap open, _Connor_ is scrawled on your arm in drunken black lettering, and it all comes back to you, and you're jumping out of bed and pulling an old sweatshirt on and knocking on Connor's door. And when he opens the door and something flickers bright on his face when he sees you standing there, you can’t think of any words.

You just lean forward, and kiss him, no longer drunk, and you hope that says enough.


End file.
